Little Hell
by thecoloursoftheworld
Summary: She laughs when she cries now, because the idea, the dream of her previous life, before this little hell began, is laced with hilarity and hysteria. Angsty Fantine oneshot.


**A/N: so I was feeling kind of angsty and decided to try my hand at a Fantine fic! Hopefully I did her justice, and it's not too horrible. NOTE: The title is inspired by the City and Colour song of the same name. My idea of Fantine is inspired by the book and the 2012 film.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Les Miserables or any of its characters.**

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The coughing is unbearable. Just when she thinks it is over, she cannot possibly suffer anything more than she already has, it starts. At first, it's just a light cough, as if she's been running a bit too long and has been left out of breath. Soon, however, it becomes deeper, and blood appears with the runny phlegm. She continues to work as much as she can, if _work_ is an accurate word for the things she does to her body (it feels accurate, she thinks, as she massages her aching body with frigid fingertips). She ignores the coughing, the little spatters of blood that are left on her filthy pillowcase with her tears.

She laughs when she cries now, because the idea, the dream of her previous life, before this little hell began, is laced with hilarity and hysteria. Her body has become emaciated, and her skin is so pale as to be nearly translucent. Her bones stick out grotesquely, and her veins protrude from her fragile limbs, but still she goes on. She knows that if she does not go on, her sweet daughter, her angel smiling down upon her, her Cosette, will suffer the consequences.

The disgusting men with their putrid odours fill her days and nights, their faces blurring together, their names forgotten altogether. You do not need a name in the industry of prostitution, she realises, just a willingness to do anything for a sou (and occasionally a franc, if she is lucky enough to get an upper-class gentleman with money to spare). Her hair, once long and golden and beautiful, is beginning to grow back a little, but it is pale and streaked throughout with grey; she is twenty-seven years old, and yet, from her hunched posture and emaciated figure, a passerby might assume that she is eighty.

She feels it when she breathes now; a sick aching, a shortness of breath, a hacking cough. She knows that she is ill and that she will not survive long without a fire, a bed, a piece of real food without any rotten or mouldy spots to be seen, but the only way she can think to live is to sell herself day and night. She does it all in the name of her daughter, who must be nearing her eighth year. She tries not to think about the fact that she will be missing yet another of Cosette's birthdays, and instead focuses on making enough money to pay the Thénardiers.

Her world, or what sad, devastated parts of it remain, crumbles in an instant. Her dignity, her pride, these things she has thrown away in the hopes of earning a sou or two, but her heart, though cracked and oozing hot blood, has remained intact thus far (if only for Cosette). It only shatters when the inspector arrives, he with his heart of wood.

But, like the night that ends in a dawn, her hope is rekindled by the very man who made her who she is now, the very man who let his foreman throw her from her place in society, to the very bottom of the heap. She is barely conscious as he carries her from the docks, that cesspool of criminal activity (she tries to ignore the fact that she took part in a good deal of it), to the hospital. He promises to her that he will bring her child, and she feels the pain in her chest begin to ebb away, as if her body is trying to heal itself so that she can be whole for her darling Cosette.

Later, she realises the truth; her body has simply given up, and is sparing her, letting her live without agony for a little while longer. She gives up hope of ever seeing her child again, and makes him promise to take care of the girl.

In the grand scheme of things, her hell is simply another inkblot on the parchment of condemnation, but at least she knows, with her last breath, that Cosette will live on. In the end, she is happy.


End file.
